Snapshots in Nordic History
by Fyrsil
Summary: Major events in Nordic history as told through the eyes of Denmark and Norway (with a significant bias to events concerning these nations). Events in nations shaped and molded Denmark and Norway's feelings for each other - molded each of the Nordics into who they are today. From the bronze age to modern day, an ongoing story of aspiration, tragedy, people and family.
1. The bronze age - beginnings of relations

Denmark had heard about the existence of Norway for quite some time. Of course, ever since the Bronze age they had been trading, and he'd encountered himself the few Norwegian men (and some women) who ventured to Rome to join the army back in the Empire days, but the nation himself -an entity such as Denmark – had been as elusive as his people were rumoured to be. It was a source of continuous frustration to Denmark. He'd become well acquainted with his southern counterparts – the lofty Netherlands made up of several miscellaneous tribes, and the charismatic Rome. Norway was a short sail across the sea to the north, and he _should_ have visited already, he would have, if it had not been his hesitation. Every nation he'd met so far, he'd felt superior to. Why wouldn't he? He was self-contained. Life was tough, but his people were tougher. They'd mastered _farming_ years ago. Norway was further north, yet he still survived. His people had flourished, and came to tell tales of ice and fjords and wolves and mountains. Whatever valiant man Norway was, Denmark was afraid, he admitted it, that he would finally have met his match.

Thus, when he first set eyes on the other nation, he felt himself infinitely confused, a tad bemused and brimming with questions. Of course, they were all young compared to human's age; Rome was the eldest nation Denmark had ever met at twenty-five years. But Norway – he didn't just look young, he looked youthful. His skin was smooth and unmarred, like a noblewoman's or a cowardly man's. He didn't grow beard or stubble, and above sharp cheekbones was a softness of cheek. He was shorter and slimmer than Denmark, by far, and Denmark struggled not to tower over him with broad shoulders and muscular arms. This Norway was surely not fit to fight. He seemed barely able to draw the sword at his hip.

Regardless, Denmark had been taught hospitality, for it was one of the most important values one could have, and at the nation's appearance at his hall he'd opened the door with welcome, smiling, "come in, come in. You must be Norway."

The man turned to him, and in the evening sunlight his eyes were pools of darkness, only hints of blue revealing the pigment of them. "Each man should be watchful and wary in speech, and slow to put faith in a friend," the elusive man spoke, "so may we be friends, but with apprehension. Don't be deceived that I will trust you for many decades yet." He walked past Denmark into the hall, neck craning to take in the carved wood of the ceiling and pillars. A great table, carved from oak, took centre-place in the room, gleaming cunningly. Tapestry had been created of recent, and Denmark had had his favourite poems illustrated by the talented women of his nation – the poem of Atli, with Procne's hands running crimson with the blood of her children, the list of Rig, a stylised depiction of the class system in its infancy. They fluttered in the breeze of the autumn air, and shuddered as Matthias closed the door.

"You are spoken," Norway admitted as he observed the scenes. "What god to you follow as your patron?"

"Thor, when we need a good harvest," Denmark explained, "Freyja, when a woman is with child."

Norway raised a slender eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"And you?"

Norway was surprised by the question, but he hid it well. "Heimdall; Odin; in times of strife I stray to Skadi. I have had contact with Loki. I have had contact with all those to dwell away from humans."

"You sound much the heathen," Denmark observed disapprovingly.

Norway smiled. He had taken a seat at the head of the table. He looked up at Denmark through dark, blonde eyelashes, and if he were a woman Denmark would have accused him of trying to seduce him. "We're all pagan in this wretched world."

They spoke for much of the evening in flickering candlelight. Norway told Denmark of Sweden, his Westerly neighbour, and the Sami people, a bizarre result of migration and integration. They weren't much different from his settled people, he told Denmark, but for their quickly straying culture and language. Norway wasn't sure if he encompassed them, for they spanned the Northerly parts of Norway, Denmark and Finland, but he spoke fondly of the peoples, and Denmark eagerly listened to the man's tales. His way with words was immensely pleasurable.

When it came of Denmark's turn to speak, he told of his marginally better communication with the South, and of the Celtic lands in what the Romans had dubbed Briton. He told of the land of the Saxon's weakness, manned only by broken tribes made from his and Netherland's invaders, of the celts in the north and the island further west. In what he felt a moment of bonding, they laughed heartily (with the aid of mead) at the Christianity that had invaded the island like a plague, first joking, then plotting, at the wealth that could be acquired by plundering the heavy chapels and lightening them of their treasures.

Norway was heartily drunk by that point, and Denmark sufficiently tipsy, though it went against all the wisdom of the gods. They were alone, dwarfed by the immense hall, and strangers. Yet they bonded quickly through nation status and startling similarity in culture and language, and their equally ruthless plans to attack Lindisfarne, an isle to the East of Briton, with a wealthy monastery.

"Rich for decades!" Denmark slung an arm around Norway, which was not pushed off, "rich for centuries!"

"Rich until modernity," Norway giggled, a different person once drunk. He was docile, and quietly humorous, tolerant of Denmark's loudness, and strangely receptive to Denmark's touch (something Denmark had considered using to snide him of his earlier comment, but choosing, wisely, not to).

Denmark realised, with awkwardness, that his arm was still around Norway's shoulders, and went to pull away, only for a quick hand to grab his wrist, keeping it there. Denmark looked at the other nation in surprise, but Norway avoided his gaze. Quickly, things had become sombre and awkward, and Denmark worried that Norway would get drunk like a woman and burst into tears. He did not, only continued watching the fire dance in the fireplace, leaning further into Denmark's warmth.

"'S cold where I come from. 'M tired of dyin' of cold," he mumbled.

Denmark's hand found it's way to his hair, and he dared run his fingers through the silky locks. "Think you should be more worried about dying of loneliness," he observed. "How many nations you met yet?"

"Only Sweden, I don't trust folk," Norway said.

"Nations are the only ones who take away the loneliness; humans die too easily."

"…slow to put faith in a friend," Norway hesitated.

"Then be slow!" Denmark protested, making Norway jump. "Be slow, but trust eventually; I can only say to trust me, for I don't know of the motives of others. But I don't follow the words of the gods as strictly – my god is my instinct – and I have trusted you since the moment I set eyes on you."

There blossomed the beginnings of the intricate relationship between the nations of Denmark and Norway. It was one more tightly woven than many nations in the world, and one that survived centuries, conflict, and change. It began with courage, aspiration, and a night entwined in each other. Their friendship would not see so much intimacy for the vast majority of their time spent together, but what was enormous to both of them set the foundations of what they could be.


	2. The raid of Lindisfarne

Years later, Denmark stood affront a longboat. The wind tugged at his hair, grown longer and wilder. He had plaited it down the sides to keep it out of his face, and shaved his beard in caution of an enemy using it as leverage to sever his neck – though, as well predicted, Denmark and Norway didn't expect to encounter much resistance. He relished in the freedom he felt as the boat skipped along the waves, the sails full and the men taking well-deserved rest from rowing. They'd been sailing for a long time, and everyone was tired and in anticipation of a fight. The men told tales of gold and jewels that they'd bring back to their wives and children, wealth that would birth glory for generations. A fitting place in Valhalla was present for any who fought and died bravely – though, Denmark though with an amused snort, it would be more likely the Britons who met their harsh God first.

"Land!" A watcher called down from the crow's nest, "I see the shore of Briton!"

Denmark pushed himself from the side, straining to see through the sea mists. Norway was at his side in an instant, already clad in battle armour and his sword close to a slender hip. He smirked knowingly at Denmark, and Denmark knew the runes had told of victory. He left his fellow nation to strap on his own armour, cajoling the men into battle frenzy and shouting promises of treasure and women. When he joined Norway's side again, the slender nation smiled up at him, looking too pure for his armour, and pressed a Vegvisr into Denmark's palm, "for protection."

Then they were rowing ashore, and their boots met British sand, and in a blur Danes and Swedes and Norwegians swarmed the Island, mounting sand dunes, ravaging trees, rushing as if drawn by ropes to the humble-looking monastery perched on a peek. Denmark and Norway led the band of men, and they made an assault on the silence as they went, shouting and yelling in a plethora of dialects. Coming to the thick, very shut door, Denmark rose his axe and with one deft swoop began the assault on the barrier. They hammered for what felt like only seconds, Norway surging back to avoid splinters, and when, finally, the door gave way, the mass of men roared forward like crows swarming a carcass.

And that wasn't far from the truth. The Danes, and Swedes, and Norwegians killed without mercy and monk who resisted them, enslaved those who tried to run. Denmark swing his axe into the chest of a bok-writer, and the man bled on all his precious parchments, dead immediately. Holy screams radiated the building. Norway came into the bok-room where Denmark was gasping, and they shared an elated smile. "I've killed seven holy men!" Denmark boasted.

"I've killed eight," Norway lied, flicking droplets of blood from his sword to prove his point.

The shouting from outside seemed to become mute as their eyes got suck on each other, and the wild grins melted as they stood standing, sweating and breathing hard, taking in the sight of the allied nation.

Denmark took a step forward, and his next would have taken him eye-to-eye to Norway, but at the last moment he shouted "Duck!" and hurled his sword at where the Norwegian had been standing before he'd thrown himself to the floor. There, behind him, was a Briton whose clothing lacked the holy-man drabness. Dressed in a plain green tunic, his corn-coloured hair hung lankly in front of his eyes as he snarled at them in blind fury. The sword Denmark had thrown would have killed any ordinary man almost immediately, but this one ripped it from his chest, ignoring the fountain of blood that erupted onto Norway.

"You don't belong here," he snarled, his heavy eyebrows drawing together like storm clouds. Norway tried to thrust a dagger at his soft underbelly, but the man seemed to notice at the last moment, and parried the blade, kicking Norway's exposed face, sending him sprawling on the stone ground.

Denmark blackened in fury. With a yell, he swung at the man, who parried, only to have his wound kicked by Denmark's large boot. He crumpled with a cry, and Denmark raised his axe to decapitate him when Norway struggled to grab Denmark's arm.

"Stop! Stop, did you not think to ask him who he is?"

Denmark almost ignored his partner – almost – but with disparity in his eyes he held the final blow on the broken body as Norway crouched down beside the man. "Who are you?"

The man looked through his grimy fringe. "Fuck. You."

"Who are you?" Norway demanded, transforming into the rare yet terrifying picture of a man, face ashen with threat and eyes little daggers.

"I am England. This is _my_ land, invader, and you shall not take it as you please."

Norway's expression turned into distain. "We have no want for this land. It is ours to rape and pillage as we please, and don't think you may win victory against _our_ men."

"Who are you then?" England spat, despite the immediate threat to his life.

"I am Norway. This is Denmark. We are…" Norway looked to Denmark questioningly.

"Vikings," Denmark said, "we are Vikings."

They almost let the man go after that, but just as he was scrambling to his feet Denmark could hold back the urge no longer, and severed his midriff with one deadly swing of his axe. Norway glared at him disapprovingly, but Denmark, having lost his usual cheery disposition and not a little scary in his battle craze simply said, "humour me."

In the decades following, it was mostly Norway who went with his men to rape and pillage new lands. Suffering famine – his own body got at some points terrifyingly emaciated – he settled the Shetland Islands, Orkney, the Faroe Islands… Sometimes Denmark was by his side, and would watch in awe and pride as his friend garnered a reputation of fear and respect. His frailty and slightness of size seemed trivial now, as Denmark had seen what his skill and hidden strength was capable was – had experienced it first hand when they wrestled and sparred in times of relative peace. Norway's hunger for adventure was large, and it dwarfed Sweden's trading ambition and Denmark's easy-going raids. He was perfect in his ruthlessness, beautiful in his ambition. Denmark found every new thing he learned about his friend only caused him fall more hopelessly in love with the man, and he stuck by his side with a loyalty Norway would never experience again.


	3. Iceland

In the late ninth century, word had become common knowledge of a vast, beautiful island to the north, which had been aptly named Iceland. Norway had delayed his personal voyage there – out of fear of a potential enemy or blatant disinterest Denmark couldn't tell – but as the land began to develop and divide, Norway informed Denmark he was to set sail for Iceland to support his colony and explore for himself. Denmark knew that what went unsaid was that a man or woman like themselves may already be inhabiting the land, and it was Norway's duty to subdue the potential threat.

Denmark eagerly volunteered to join him, and Norway didn't seem surprised. They set sail in early spring, and arrived in Iceland when the weather was thawing, the bite not so harsh as its former months. Denmark was in awe of the alien landscape, but Norway's expression when first regarding it was with a keen, critical eye, as if sizing up the very foundation of the land.

The settlements were slightly behind the development rate of Denmark and Norway, but the people had organised themselves fairly, so fighting and arguments were minimal, considering the harsh conditions they faced even after building. On the first day, Norway walked a great deal, through gassy plains that steamed like the Christian hell, and past black beaches that gleamed in the eternal sunlight. While Norway's face was a mask of ice, Denmark openly gaped at the majestic landscape, picturing – as he always had done – what burly, thickish nation must inhabit it, clad, he imagines, in furs and harsh wool. Though, there seemed to be very little wildlife, except for cliffs teaming with fat little birds and the oceans so full with fish they could smell them in the air.

At just past midday, Norway led Denmark to the top of one of these cliffs, disturbing without care the mating birds as he sat ungracefully down. Denmark regarded his friend with mild amusement, taking a seat on the moss a little away and tearing up handfuls of it, every now and then chucking a chunk at Norway, who sent him half-hearted glares.

They ate a quick lunch of rye bread and cured meat before heading back inland so that the sounds of the crashing waves only whispered in the distance. They came to a teeming network of streams, and when Denmark took a handful to drink the water was almost scolding hot. He dropped it with a shout and called to Norway.

"What is it?" Norway asked impatiently.

"The water is warm! Feel it, does that make sense to you?"

"It's a warm day."

"Still colder than a spring in Denmark – feel it," and Denmark gently took Norway's wrist and thrust it into the water. Norway gasped with surprise, looking at Denmark, his eyes gleaming like gems. "See?"

"It's odd," Norway admitted, and brought a handful to smell. "It's sulphurous."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know."

"Well," Denmark declared, "It's probably not, so I'm going to swim." And he began stripping his tunic and trousers until he was completely naked, and splashed into the water like a toddler, laughing as the heat made his skin tingle and a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. All the time Norway had been frowning, cheeks red from mild embarrassment, abut once it became clear Denmark wasn't coming out any time soon he sighed, and slung the heavy cape off and undressed as well.

Denmark had never seen Norway naked, and somehow looking felt inappropriate. Still, he cast small glances as his friend's slender legs, the downy layer of hair shimmering a pale gold in the watery sun. His waist and hips were slimmer than Denmark had anticipated, as were his shoulders, but a slight muscle tone made it very obvious that Norway was truly male. As did – well, Denmark thought, looking away just as his linen undergarments fell to the ground, perhaps there were some things he _didn't_ have to see.

He felt better once Norway joined him in the small pool, and they bathed for a small part of the sun's journey to the horizon. It was pleasant spending time with Norway when he wasn't thinking or planning or doing, and Denmark enjoyed watching the harshness fall from his face into softness.

They dressed when it became obvious the sun would set soon after they would make it back to the Norwegian settlement, and just as Denmark was pinning his cloak around his neck he heard a small voice gasp – too child-like to be Norway, though it held a similar intonation – and say, horrified, "what are you doing _here?"_

He looked, for the newcomer was several metres away, shying behind bushy outcrop, and Norway swivelled too. The child was clad in a billowy white dress, dirtied. His hair shone whiteish, eyes wide and dark, little pools of violet to what Norway's were sapphire, and his skin was so pale it was illuminous. Even in childhood he bore a startling resemblance to Norway, though clearly lacking pigmentation. He looked frightened, and was walking backwards frailly as Norway and Denmark approached him.

When Norway's purposeful strides frightened him too much, the boy turned and ran, bare feet scrambling over the rocks and moss, though, even if he could outrun them, in a landscape so devoid of trees Denmark couldn't imagine he'd find any place to hide from them. Norway sprinted deftly to the boy and grabbed his arm harshly, pulling him back with such unprecedented violence that the boy slipped and would have fell, if Norway hadn't yanked him up again.

When Denmark caught up he could hear the boy sobbing, and he couldn't have been more than eight or nine, and he felt indignation rise in his throat until he realised that this was clearly the nation Iceland, and it was Norway's own right to treat him as he felt fit.

"Let me go!" The boy cried, "let me go, dirty foreigner."

Norway struck him once across the face, which silenced him. He then crouched down so that he was eye-to-eye with Iceland. "Do you know who I am?" The boy shook his head. "I am the nation of Norway, and my people have colonised you. Do you know what that means?" Another shake. "It means that you are my property."

"B-but," the boy sobbed, "I am Iceland. I belong to myself."

Before Norway could reply, Denmark put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in it. He tentatively said, "Norway, I don't think this is the right way to deal with him."

Without relinquishing his grip on the boy Norway turned his head, looking suddeny vulnerable. "How else do I do it? All I know is robbing and plundering, and that works well to make others obedient."

Denmark thought for a moment. "But he is a colony, not someone you're plundering – at least, I should hope you wouldn't plunder your own people." Now Norway was the one violently shaking his head, "well, then he is surely a child because he won't rebel, at least for a very long time. And he _has_ been alone on this land for many years."

Denmark could see Norway relinquishing. His friend turned back to the trembling child and put a hand gently to his face, using a thumb to wipe the tears from his fine freckles. Iceland opened his eyes unsurely, looking at the changed expression on Norway's face, and then suddenly flung himself into the man's chest, grasping at the woollen tunic and he burrowed his white head close to Norway. Denmark smiled at Norway's surprise, and jovially placed Norway's hands on the child's back, prompting him to rub at the child's back soothingly.

"Now that wasn't too hard," he muttered quietly, smiling yet looking a little sad, a little left out as he stood a bit away from the embracing nations. For a second he met Iceland's eyes, and the child was about to go to him it seemed, until Denmark slowly turned around, making his way back to the settlement and calling over his shoulder, "I'll be back at the cottage."

Norway called his ascent, not turning to look at his friend. Denmark walked away feeling frustratingly dejected, and not realising that Iceland's keen gaze followed him until he was no longer in sight.


End file.
